


Burning

by prosecutor_splorchie



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Abuse, Angst, FAHC, I'm so sorry Michael, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:41:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26642374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosecutor_splorchie/pseuds/prosecutor_splorchie
Summary: The burning pain against his throat and jaw was all the felt. The silent, stinging tears clouding his vision all he saw. The raspy sound of his uneven breathing as he sobbed all he heard. He sat alone in one of their safe houses, curled up in a ball in the corner, knees tucked tightly against his chest as he tried to fight off the cold, dark atmosphere that surrounded him. He closed his eyes as tight as possible, as if everything would just magically go away if he did so for long enough.The front door was left ajar, hinges probably broken from how hard it was slammed. A large hole was in the wall from where it was punched in amidst blind rage. Shards of plates and broken glass exploded out across the room, a minefield to walk across. It was evidence. Evidence of something ugly, something wrong, something dysfunctional.
Relationships: Ryan Haywood/Michael Jones
Kudos: 6





	Burning

The burning pain against his throat and jaw was all the felt. The silent, stinging tears clouding his vision all he saw. The raspy sound of his uneven breathing as he sobbed all he heard. He sat alone in one of their safe houses, curled up in a ball in the corner, knees tucked tightly against his chest as he tried to fight off the cold, dark atmosphere that surrounded him. He closed his eyes as tight as possible, as if everything would just magically go away if he did so for long enough.

The front door was left ajar, hinges probably broken from how hard it was slammed. A large hole was in the wall from where it was punched in amidst blind rage. Shards of plates and broken glass exploded out across the room, a minefield to walk across. It was evidence. Evidence of something ugly, something wrong, something dysfunctional.

The silence consumed him, swallowed him into a void of nothing. It felt like the silence was physically hurting him, burning and scratching at his skin. He tried to scream, but the silence swallowed the noise up too. He couldn’t do anything but weep in the cold, dark corner of the safe house.

He could probably be labelled as a giant idiot for running back, even if he knew it wasn’t perfectly safe or loving or normal, as much as he wanted it to be. As much as it felt like it was in the moment. It all felt safe and happy until he ended up on the floor in a pool of his own tears and blood, clambering for air and the warmth he desperately craved.

Michael didn’t know who to blame – himself or the man who put him in this situation. He was idiot for stumbling back to Ryan, he knew he was, but the man was clearly struggling too. There was a reason he was the most feared figure in all of Los Santos. He was unremorseful, emotionless and cold. He showed nothing, everything about him anonymous and mysterious. But underneath the silent façade was a man filled with hurt. He was lonely, Michael could always see it in the blue eyes that shined from behind the skeleton mask. That was what drew Michael towards him the first place.

Michael had the least idea on how to handle someone’s emotions, he couldn’t even handle his own, so little bickering turned to arguments, and arguments turned violent. A punch would be thrown, either at a face or at the wall, objects would be tossed, and it always led to this. Cold, dark corner in the swallowing pit of silence. Sobs and screams and pleas for help dissolving into nothing, being carried away by the wind and out of the atmosphere. He wanted it to end, desperately wanted it to end, wanted to be the damsel in distress that’s saved and carried away by a dashing prince, but he was caught in the loop of Stockholm syndrome. Crawling away and crawling back again.

He stayed there, shivering in the cold air that was drifting into the room from the open door. His body ached, sore from the position he had been sitting in for at least an hour and the endless sobs wracking through his body. He was tired, so fucking tired. Tired of crying, tired of burning, tired of feeling. He wanted to shut down his body, let it recharge and come back when he was at full power and ready to confront the world again.

But he was just stuck at 1% with no reception.

He wasn’t crying anymore, no tears would escape him even if he wanted them to. His breath was still raspy and shallow against his bruised and bloodied skin. He couldn’t tell if his injuries were from the brutal missions he’s usually sent on or the other occupant of the safe house, but they all stung nonetheless.

“Baby? Are you still here?”

The voice clashed inside his head, heaven and hell colliding. It was sickly sweet, the thorns on a rose’s stem. It filled his body with warmth that both calmed him and burned his insides into ash. He wanted to run towards it, let himself be consumed by the warmth to avoid the pit of silence and numb. It wouldn’t last forever, it never lasted forever, but he would cling to the warmth for as long as he could.

The redhead looked up at the man who just entered, his black and blue jacket a comfortable yet terrifying sight. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t answer the question. Every part of his body burned and ached with such intensity he thought he would pass out.

“There you are, Michael,” Ryan said, cold eyes staring down at him from across the room, “come here.”

The leather-clad man opened his arms out, inviting the other to step out of the dark corner and into his warm embrace. Michael’s swollen lips quivered, though he chose to ignore it. This wasn’t him, it didn’t sound like him. Ryan would be back eventually. This wasn’t him.

He told himself that every time, but he wasn’t sure if he believed it anymore.

Slowly, Michael stood up. If he had any faster, he was sure his legs would give out and he’d tumble back down to the carpeted floor beneath his feet. He balanced himself and closed his eyes, willing his head to stop throbbing and his throat to stop burning. When he opened up his eyes, he noticed the salty tears blurring up his vision again. He felt the first fall down his freckled cheek, but made no move to wipe it away. He let it fall, along with the next, and the next.

His body convulsed with a sob as he ran over to Ryan and his warmth. He thought everything would be ok when he returned to his arms, the cold would disappear and he could ignore it until he’d eventually be tossed to the side again. The cold multiplied, burned through his skin in a different way the warmth did.

Michael was enveloped in Ryan’s embrace, a hand was stroking through his matted curls while the other was circling patterns against the t-shirt he was wearing. He sobbed into the older man, his body shivering and burning and stinging and screaming. Ryan started letting out little ‘shhh’s, and it only made his sobbing even worse. The battle between heaven and hell was over, hell had won.

“Everything will be ok, Michael,” Ryan whispered into his curls, the rose thorns digging into Michael’s skin, “everything will be ok.”


End file.
